


Finally, Finally

by RosesandStatues



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Baking, Dancing, Danny's still dead, Doctor's POV, Episode: s08e08 Mummy on the Orient Express, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, How Do I Tag, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I hope, It's good I promise, Kisses, Lovers to Friends, Not Beta Read, POV Third Person, Please read, Post Regeneration, Post-Episode: s08e08 Mummy On The Orient Express, Pre-Regeneration, Regeneration, Soufflés, friends to lovers to friends to lovers, it's a mess, no editing we die like men, sorry - Freeform, ummm - Freeform, what else, whouffaldi, whouffle, yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 17:56:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15846414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosesandStatues/pseuds/RosesandStatues
Summary: He wants to ask if this means he can kiss her now. He wants to ask if that was a one-time thing, if it meant nothing. He doesn’t ask.(He is too afraid of the response.)





	Finally, Finally

The first time they kissed it wasn’t her. It was one of her echoes, the barmaid that was actually a governess. The governess that was actually a barmaid. It was the first affection he had received in days. Weeks. Months.

He was going to travel the stars with her. Show her every planet, every galaxy. He was going to take her to see every sunrise, every sunset, every Christmas and New Years. They were going to see it all.

And then she was gone, and he was alone.

Again.

But, “Are you going back to your cloud?”

“No more cloud. Not now.”

“Why not?”

“It rained.”

But, “Run. Run you clever boy…and remember.”

But, kneeling by her grave, those flowers in hand, staring at her name engraved into the stone, he finds himself saying, “I never knew her name. Her full name.” _Oswin Oswald._ “Souffle girl. Oswin. It was her. It was Souffle Girl again.” He stood up, spinning to face Jenny and Vastra, feeling that old shiver of excitement course down his spine. “I never saw her face the first time with the Daleks, but her voice. It was the same voice!”

They don’t understand.

“The same woman, twice, and she died both times. The same woman!”

They are confused, worried, “Doctor, please, what are you talking about?”

“Something’s going on, something impossible, something…” He feels a grin fill his face—when was the last time he smiled?—and he turns, running to his Tardis.

“Are you coming back?”

“Shouldn’t think so.”

“But where are you going?”

“To find her.” He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the universe. “To find Clara.”

 

The second time they kissed, it was _her_. Not one of her echoes, but _her_.

(He still doesn’t know who she is, _what_ she is. He finds that he doesn’t care.)

They were dancing, her laughing at his clumsy feet, him grinning at her because _how could anyone be so beautiful?_ when suddenly she pulls him down, like the governess did so long ago, and kisses him like he was everything. He knows what to do with his hands this time, burying them in her hair, pulling her closer to him, rubbing his thumb across her cheekbone, and the sigh that she releases is mirrored with one of his own.

She pulls away, smirking at him, and says some quippy response that he didn’t quite catch because his brain is still catching up from short-circuiting. And she grabs his hand, pulling him off to another adventure, a smile permanently burned into her face.

He wants to ask if this means he can kiss her now. He wants to ask if that was a one-time thing, if it meant nothing. He doesn’t ask.

(He is too afraid of the response.)

 

The third time, they are running to the engine room, skidding to a halt in front of a chasm, dirt covering their faces, chests heaving from the exertion.

“So what do we do?” She asks. “Time for a plan. Do you have a plan?” Spoken all in a rush, bouncing slightly from the adrenaline.

“Well,” he responds, dragging out the vowels. “No. No plan, sorry.”

“If we don’t have a plan we’re _dead._ ”

“Yes, we are.” And he has to ask. He _has_ to know. “So just tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Well, there’s no point now. We’re about to die, just tell me who you are.”

“You know who I am!”

“No I don’t! I look at you every single day and I don’t understand a thing about you.” _He has to know_. “Why do I keep running into you?”

She's confused, bewildered, “Doctor, you invited me, you said—”

“Before, I met you at the Dalek asylum, there was a girl in a shipwreck and she died saving my life, and she was _you._ ”

“She really wasn’t.”

He continues, ignoring her sarcastic commentary, the frustration of not _understanding_ pouring out into his words. “Victorian London. There was a governess who was really a barmaid and we fought the Great Intelligence together. She died, and it was _my fault_ , and she was  _you._ ”

She begins to back up, fear coloring her face, “You're scaring me.”

 _He has to know_. “What are you, eh? A _trick,_ a _trap_?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” And she takes a step back too far, stumbling, nearly falling into the chasm, and for a millisecond he thinks he’s going to lose her, but he grabs her, pulling her against him before it was too late. And he stares at her, watching her.

“You really don’t, do you?”

“I think I’m more scared of you right now more than anything else in that Tardis.”

“You’re just Clara! Aren’t you?” He laughs, pulling her into a hug, and she’s still confused, of course, and he has to, because _she’s just Clara_.

The kiss was brief, short, merely a peck on the lips, and neither of them acknowledge it, like they did with his second, her first. She’s still confused, and he still _wants to know_ , but not right now. He refuses to die here. He refuses to _let her_ die here.

 

The fourth time, they were sitting on the couch, watching some horrible sci-fi movie that the Doctor criticized every minute, when suddenly she paused the movie, adjusting herself so she was facing him.

He blinked rapidly, “Clara?”

And she leaned in and kissed him like it was the easiest thing in the world. It was short, sweet, and _oh so beautiful_ , and when she finally pulled away for air she grinned cheekily at him.

And he couldn’t  speak, fingers reaching up to brush against his lips, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing like a fish. _“Clara?”_

She turns to face the TV, clicking the _play_ button on the remote, leaning against his shoulder this time, fingers lacing with his. “I thought it was about time we kissed again.” And he can’t help but smile back at her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, fingers tightening on hers.

He loses track after that. The fifth, the sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, he stops counting. He loses track of when the hugs turn into kisses, when the kisses deepened into something _more_ , something _amazing_. He loses track of when he realized that he loves her.

 

But then he’s gone. He’s _changed_ , and she’s going to leave him.

 _Oh god, she’s leaving him_.

He wants to fall to his knees, beg her to stay with him, and he realizes that the thought of losing her is more terrifying than the thought of being alone.

But she’s leaving.

And then, _thank god_ , that phone call, he remembers making it. Remembers the tremors in her voice as she fought back tears. Remembers after hanging up that he should have told her.

Those three magic words that were _so hard_ and yet _so easy_ to say.

And she’s staying, she’s not leaving him, and he feels like crying because _he’s not losing her_.

Not yet.

(He remembers staring at his reflection, after it’s all said and done, after the regeneration sickness has passed, and feeling a sinking sensation in his stomach, cold dread worming through his stomach because he’s _old_. He looks _so old_.)

They don’t kiss after that, and he has to pretend it’s not killing him. He has to pretend that he doesn’t _want_ to anymore, because he can see how it’s tearing her apart. How she’ll stare at him when she thinks he’s not looking, fingers reaching up and brushing across her lips, remembering what it felt like to hold him, be held by him.

_(“Clara, I’m not your boyfriend.” He has to end it. He’s not the bowtie wearing, excited, puppy like person he once was. He can’t let her get close to him._

_He’s a timelord, afterall, and she is just human._

_“I never thought you were.” It’s destroying her, piece by piece, molecule by molecule. It’s destroying him._

_“I never said it was your mistake.” I never said it was_ my _mistake._ )

And then he gets to meet him. _Danny_. The man who took Clara from him.

He has no right to be jealous, he was the one who ended it in the first place, but he can’t help but hate the Maths teacher, hate him for having something that he doesn’t, hate him for making Clara choose between them, hate him for making Clara look at him like _that_ after they fight.

Humans. He never learns.

And then it’s their last hurrah, and he has to look down at his shoes because if he looks at her he knows he won’t be able to take his eyes off of her. And she pulls him into her room, shutting the door behind them, the lights barely on. “ _What the hell? The last hurrah, right?_ ” she whispers, as she removes his jacket, shirt, pants, as his hands dance over her body and he has to remind himself not to get attached.

Later, when it’s all over, when their last has come to a close, he remembers standing on that beach, staring at her wrapped in a blanket, face peaceful as she sleeps, he remembers falling to his knees, and finally allowing himself to cry, because it was _over_. _She’s leaving him_.

He picks up his broken pieces before she wakes up, stashing them close to his heart, encasing them in a steel box so that no one can ever hurt him again. So that he can never love again.

(By the time they get back on the Tardis he realizes that the box has cracks in it, that no matter how many layers of steel he encases it with, there will _always_ be cracks.)

“Do you love it?” she asks him, eyes desperate, dress flowing around her legs.

“Love what?” It’s a stupid question. He knows what she’s asking.

“I know it’s scary and difficult, but do you love being the man to make the impossible choice?” He doesn’t know where this is going. He hates not knowing.

“Why would I?”

“Because it’s what you do, all day, every day.”

“It’s my life.”

“Doesn’t have to be.” She continues, uncertainty ringing in her voice, “Is it like…?”

“Like what?”

She hesitates, before forcing herself to go on. “An addiction.”

“Well, you can’t really tell if something’s an addiction till you try and give it up.”

She nods, eyes filling with what he knows are barely repressed tears. “And you never have.”

He has to fight the tremors in his voice as he says, “Let me know how it goes.”

_Please don’t go._

“I love you,” she says. But not to him, to _Danny_ , who called her at the worst time, and the Doctor doesn’t think he hates anyone as much as he hates _him_.

And when she hangs up, she’s quiet. Then a smile fills her face, and he watches her, uncertain, uncertain, uncertain.

“He’s fine with it.”

 _What?_ “I’m sorry—”

“Danny. He’s fine, with the idea of me and you knocking about. It was his idea that we stop, but he’s decided he doesn’t mind.” She walks closer to him, eyes bright, excitement coloring her face. “And neither do I. Oh to hell with the last hurrah let’s keep going.”

And the steel box breaks.

 

But then Danny’s dead, and they both lied to each other, him about Gallifrey, her about Danny, and _aren’t they both idiots?_

The first time he kissed her, they were in her flat, after she had declared that _there was absolutely no way she was going out tonight_ , before dragging him to the kitchen to help her make her most recent souffle.

And he can’t help but think, her humming slightly to the song playing on the radio, flour spotting her face, covering her jeans, that this was better than any adventure they could possibly ever have. And then a song comes on that makes her grin, grabbing his hand and pulling him into the center of the room, hands finding their spot around his neck, his on her waist, and they’re _dancing, dancing, dancing._

She’s laughing at his clumsy feet, he’s grinning at her because _how could anyone be so beautiful?_ when suddenly he leans down, and kisses her like she was everything. He knows what to do with his hands this time, burying them in her hair, pulling her closer to him, rubbing his thumb across her cheekbone, and the sigh that he releases is mirrored with one of her own.

When she finally pulls away for air, their foreheads pressed together, noses brushing, and he has to tell her, _he has to let her know_. “I love you, Clara.”

And she grins at him, “About time you said so, you stupid old man.”

He smiles back, large and toothy, and finally, _finally_ kisses her again, and again, and again.

(And the steel box remains broken.)


End file.
